Life Through The Looking Glass
by opi666
Summary: Rainey, Mort and Shooter meet women. Two hate them, one befriends one. This is their psychotic saga.
1. The Train's On Time

Secret window – Life through the looking glass

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Mostly Stephen King's. Anything you don't recognize, is mine. Unfortunately, the plot line is mine. I apologize. There's also a moment where I steal some of "The Shining", so pardon me. That is also owned by out dear Stephen King. The man owns Anyways…Basically, everything that you do recognize, is owned by either a genius, or some big name corporation.

Rating – T for now. Most probably going to change it.

Summary – Rainey, Mort and Shooter meet women. Two hate them, one befriends one. This is their psychotic saga.

Pairing – Rainey/OFC

Author's notes : This is ridiculously AU, in a twisted way. Shooter, Rainey ETC are considered real people. They wouldn't be recognized by the 'mundanes', but they're people. Shooter can actually plant flowers, they're not a figment of imagination. Drunkenness is plausible. They make an impact on Mort's life. Also, I apologize if Shooter's dialogue is screwy, I had a hard time figuring it out. I channeled some Ichabod Crane for Rainey's character. Ie: the nervousness and ineptness with females.

Prologue.

They had gotten away with murder. It had seemed too easy at first; too good to be true. But it was; they had done some discreet investigating, which mainly consisted of cornering the bailiff and threatening his life with the infamous shovel. The sheriff had a massive heart attack. He died. His successor, still wet behind the ears, muddled the files. Half of the evidence was lost when the old codger died. Every one in the town knew he did it. But now they had no proof. He still stayed away from town. Rainey looked after Mort, babysitting and playing personal motivational speaker. Shooter gardened. And scared people. It was a strange mix, which Mort had commented on several times.

Chapter one – The train's on time

Mort rolled over again, muttering something about squirrels. It was two o'clock, Rainey was going to wake him within moments. The trio had a twisted way of existing, but it worked nonetheless. He would sleep no later than two, for he had to work on the latest novel he was begrudgingly writing; he hated it already.

"The crap that just won't delete" Mort had pet named it.

Shooter tended to stay away when he was sleeping, the silence a bit too much for his homicidal system. Rainey sighed, scratched his birds nest of a head and cleared his throat. Mort didn't move. Rainey considered grabbing two pots, but remembered the outcome of that last experiment. It had sent Mort to the hospital, a concussion and a highly annoyed writer was the only outcome. Deciding against the prior idea, Rainey opted for the above and behind attack. At least, if Mort decided to become violent, it gave him a few extra moments to run. Moving behind his twin, Rainey inhaled deeply, before giving a shout of epic proportions. Mort jumped and subsequently fell of the couch, earning a short laugh from Rainey.

"It's two." Rainey said, cleaning his glasses on the old robe. Mort had reverted back to his old ways, only slightly more organized. He had removed the braces prematurely, saying every time he ate corn on the cob, the kernels got stuck in the wires. A week later, Mort renounced all corn. The garden now consisted of mainly flowers and tomatoes, a few bean plants scattered between

"Fine, fine. I'm up." Mort grumbled, coming to stand. His hair was a mop of tangles, his glasses were half off his face.

"Good. Now go do what you do. I'm going to make a snack." Mort nodded, waving his arm in dismissal.

As he climbed the stairs, he called, "Where's Shooter?" Mort reached his lap top, the document filled with paragraphs of his typing.

"Probably in the garden." Rainey replied, grabbing an opened bag of Doritos and a can of mountain dew. The messier of the two ascended the stairs and placed the food down on the relatively organized desk, eyeing the shiny slinky which still resided upon the desktop.

"You added some?"

"Last night." Rainey replied, thinking of the few short sentences he had added to the story. It was simple enough, nothing overly remarkable in the changes.

"It's good." Mort said, before falling into the semi-aware state of his imagination. Rainey nodded, watching his host crawl into his usual trance. His duty for the day was done, it was time to go find Shooter.

A/N: First chapter + prologue. SO BORING. It gets better, I assure you.


	2. Intimidation is Icky

Chapter two – Intimidation Icky

The porch door slammed shut, causing the robe clad Rainey to jump slightly. He wasn't overly fond of loud noises. People; especially females, threw him for a loop as well, their actions were so different from the two men he surrounded himself with. He couldn't hear the usual hums from Shooter, which was odd. He then heard a feminine laugh, followed by Shooter's.

"What the hell is going on?" Rainey mumbled, striding towards the side of the house. He came around the corner, to find the tall Mississippian chatting with a pretty young lady, her twin poking around in the garden and a flaming red head staring stand-offishly at the whole group.

"Shooter, what's going on here?" Rainey asked, eyeing the three women standing not ten feet away from him. Shooter looked up, eyeing Rainey carefully, before excusing himself. Shooter walked a ways away, before answering the shorter man's question.

"Those ladies there, well the dark haired one anyways, has the same little condition our dearest Morty-pooh has. Her friends are like us and I was just makin' some friendly conversation." Rainey nodded along with Shooter, looking at him skeptically at the mention of conversation.

"Friendly conversation? Right... They need to leave. Mort's just getting the crucial point in the plot, and if we interrupt the schedule now…" protested Rainey lamely, glancing over to the trio of women. All of them were attractive, their personalities shining through in a glance. One; a short red head, was borderline reclusive, especially when Rainey glanced at her. She was nervous, the squirming of her sandal clad toes evidence. The others; twins, were tall and black haired, one slightly dressier than the other. Their existence was similar to Mort and Rainey's; the likeness was obvious.

"Well then, a bit of flirtin'. You can only do so much, before the garden gets borin'. I've painted the shed three times, and Mort's writing the story to my likin'. I need somethin' to do. When I'm bored, I tend to do things. Involving shovels, screwdrivers and scissors." Shooter finished, before walking back over to the women. Mort grumbled and turned away, hoping that they wouldn't come into the house. Especially the red head. She was intimidating.

A/N: So sorry about Shooter's dialogue. It's totally screwed. But I tried my best. Maybe I'll go on an obsessive Secret Window binge….Better chapters coming. These ones are short and horribly boring. Sorry if I made your brain leak out of your ears.


	3. Twitch

Chapter three – Twitch

Rainey had almost dropped the can of pop, when he saw her standing and squirming just inside the door. Shooter had brought the trio of women, the dark haired ones chatting and giggling. He shuddered. Giggles unnerved him. And apparently the odd one out of the group thought so too. Rainey eyed her in a sideways glance. She had grimaced slightly, when the two raven haired beauties laughed. They laughed in unison. It was understandable. Rainey jumped, when the stairs squeaked. Mort was descending the wooden steps, giving Rainey a questioning look. He gave Shooter a look, when he glanced up from the gardening books he held on his lap. His expression a classic, "I told you so". Much to Rainey's dismay, Mort headed over to ladies, a small smile upon his face.

"I'd swear they planned this." He grumbled, before walking out the back door, past the group of socializing schizophrenics. Rainey stepped out onto the back porch and hearing more laughter, hopped the steps and headed for the clearing where Mort met Shooter. Halfway there, he grabbed the half smoked pack of pall malls from the pocket of his housecoat. Lighting one of the cigarettes, Rainey stopped in the center of the clearing. The scarlet headed one was there and she looked just as surprised.

"Er….yes…so….Hello…" Rainey finally gritted out, long drags from his cigarette punctuating his stutters. She was just as nervous, looking to the ground, her hands fiddling with the zipper on her pants pocket.

"Hi." She finally said, looking up from the ground briefly. Rainey's eyes met hers and he blurted out, "Want a cigarette?" She smiled and nodded vigorously, relieved. Rainey felt accomplished; forming sentences around females had never been his specialty. He handed her the cigarette and flicked the lighter, watching the cigarette spark to life. The mechanical fire went back in his robe pocket once the tobacco was lit, the ember brightening as she took a long drag from it.

"I'm Theresa."

"Rainey." They made brief eye contact causing Rainey smiled nervously. Theresa, as he now knew her, was walking towards the tree. He vaguely remembered Mort telling him about a squirrel that had screamed at him, that had been sitting in that tree. She leaned against it, fiddling with her hair slightly.

"So…. Shooter tells me your friend has the same condition as…uh…. Mort." Rainey said slowly, seating himself at the base of the oak. It was hot, the sun only partially shading the nervous pair sitting against the base of the tree. Theresa nodded and blew smoke out of her nose, in time with Rainey.

"Unfortunately." She said, laughing bitterly as she thought of the whimsical girls back in the cabin. Rainey nodded understanding, wondering if Shooter ever felt as disdainful towards himself and Mort.

"Are you…the original….." Rainey trailed, the question was odd, but she seemed to understand.

"I'm the intruder. Just like Shooter." Pieces of an argument came to her, screaming and knives were the predominant feature. Theresa shook her head violently, biding the scrambled memories away. Rainey paid the sudden movement no attention, his mind elsewhere.

"Are you a psycho, like Shooter?" Theresa eyed Rainey and replied, "No. Well, maybe. I'm not psycho… A little obsessive compulsive sometimes, but not psycho."

"What about? I can't sleep with the phone plugged in. And I had a thing for corn for a while." Rainey turned to Theresa, eyeing her. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, her clothing wrinkled and stained at the knees. She wasn't clothing obsessive, as he had seen. She did seem anti social though. It was a relief; he was beginning to think he was the only schizophrenic delusion that despised social relations.

"I can't stand having a dirty bathroom; especially a dirty shower door. Drives me mad, if I can't see through the window." Theresa offered, stubbing out the cigarette in the sand she sat on.

"Yeah….Mort went kind of nuts once…He took a fire poker to the shower door. And the mirror…." Rainey trailed, standing up.

"Want to go back?" He asked, watching the shorter woman stand up, pushing her hair out of her face.

"There's safety in numbers."

A/N: They're getting better? Worse?


	4. Destruction derby, Mort style

Chapter four – Destruction derby, Mort style

When the nervous pair re entered the cabin, Rainey began swearing. Mort was in the bedroom and he could hear the usually sluggish writer screaming about something. Shooter was in the garden, digging and mumbling. His hat was firmly on his head and Rainey was thankful that there was no blood on his white shirt.

"Looks like a war zone in here." Theresa commented, eyeing the mottled banister and the half emptied bookshelf; the previous contents spilled onto the floor.

"That, would be Mort. Keep an eye for any broken glass. He likes to throw things." Rainey said, before darting up the stairs, cringing as he heard the shower door flying into plexi-glass heaven. He inched the door open and was met with a slightly crazed Mort. He was swinging a fire poker about, his eyes flashing around the room like it was going to attack him. He looked feral, akin to a caged animal on the verge of attacking. Rainey noticed the window, man handled open. Shards of glass littered the floor, apparently the iron the raging man was wielding had met the panes.

"Mort, put the poker down!" Rainey called out, closing the door hastily. He jumped away from the wooden barrier, when the iron rod poked through the door. Theresa was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the calm Rainey staring back at her.

"Does he do this a lot?" She asked, eyeing the banister that had large chunks missing. Rainey was muttering several unique curses and looked at the red head blankly, the question unheard.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, stepping farther away from the door, when the metal was wrenched free. One psychotic brown eye peered through the hole for a moment, before the destruction derby restarted. Rainey winced, as he heard the armoire door splinter.

"I said, does he go on these….murderous rampages a lot?"

"Enough for me to get used to them. So….yes, he goes on these murderous rampages a lot." Rainey replied, descending the stairs.

"You're going to just leave him there?" Theresa asked, moving out of the housecoat clad man's way.

"Do you know how many shower doors we've gone through?" He replied, flopping down on the couch, swatting away some stray feathers from a torn pillow which had died nearby. Theresa took that as a signal to drop the topic, opting instead to start the cleaning up process. Rainey watched the petite woman, as she struggled with the toppled bookcase, the heavy oak too much for her small form. He jumped over the coffee table, saving her from the pending squish, when the shelf fell forward. Together, they righted the book case, sending the remaining books to the paper littered floor.

"Oh, these poor books." Theresa clucked, kneeling down to gather the devastated tomes.

"I've replaced this one four times." grumbled Rainey, eyeing the defaced cover of Mort's own book, "Everyone drops the dime."

"Liana and Smithy don't do this. They go shopping. It's scary. We have so many negligees, it's kind of disturbing." Rainey looked at her, disbelief and a perverse interest scrawled across his face.

"They buy slinky underwear when they're mad?" Theresa nodded.

"It's twisted."

A/N: Short chapter. Blah.


	5. Shooter, mediator extraordinare

Chapter five – Shooter, mediator extraordinaire

It took another hour and a half to restore the living room into its previous squalor. There were large chunks missing in the coffee table and Rainey had refused the use of the vacuum, citing, "It smells up the place. And I can't stand those deodorizer things." Mort had passed out, as he did after every rampage. He wouldn't remember… and Rainey didn't fancy having to tell him, seeing as it would probably inspire him to do it again. Theresa left, saying she needed to find her counterparts, before they bought more skimpy underwear. That left Rainey to baby sit two highly enraged psychotics, respectively. Shooter was still digging in the garden, silent except for the methodical sounds of the shovel breaking the earth. Deciding that the digging noises had been going on for long enough, Rainey stepped out the back door. The shovel had been discarded, and had been stuck upright into the earth, in Shooter's trademark style. He finally spotted the homicidal man, down on his hands and knees; potting petunias.

"You cut quite the intimidating image, planting those flowers." Rainey remarked, standing in Shooter's light. The Mississippian man looked at him, before staring pointedly at the shovel, his jacket hanging off the top of the handle. Rainey shrugged, before seating himself on the wooden steps, taking a cigarette out of his housecoat pocket. Shooter glanced up at the sound of the lighter.

"I thought you didn't smoke."

"That's Mort." Rainey corrected between puffs, "I actually liked the stuff. It was all Amy's doing." Shooter rose from the ground, brushing his hands off on his pants. Rainey offered the tall man before him a cigarette, a tanned hand removed the tobacco. He tossed him the lighter and moved over, allowing the farmer to seat himself on the wooden stairs as well. They sat in silence, smoking the chemical laced tobacco before Rainey spoke.

"Mort passed out." Shooter nodded and continued smoking. Rainey sighed, grinding out the filter, watching the last plume of smoke escape from the snuff.

"What happened?" Shooter didn't reply, his brown eyes following the chemicals that were rising into the air. Rainey waited. Shooter liked to choose his words and he had to respect his decision. Even if it was causing his throat to double clutch, and his fingers to twitch. Finally, the known psychotic rose and began to wander through the small garden, his cigarette butt discarded.

"Those ladies, Liana and Smithy, were right nice. Until Mort showed up. Liana, the one who had made my acquaintance originally, took a likin' to him. Mort didn't like either, he wanted them to get out actually. Before he went off on his tangent, he grumbled somethin' about Amy. So naturally, they had to leave. Didn't need those girls upsettin' dear Morty-poo," Shooter shrugged, the sarcasm hiding the fact that he hated the rampages Mort went on just as much as Rainey, "I asked them to leave nicely, I swear to all that's holy,"

Rainey interjected, "Not much is, anymore. Except maybe Doritos…and Mountain…" Shooter moved to the shovel, resting his hand at the top, daring Rainey to continue. He shrugged and muttered his apologies, urging Shooter to continue with the recount.

"So, I asked them to leave. Told them it was a bad time. And then one of them, I don't quite know which one it was, went nuts. She started yellin', saying somethin' about rejection and all of these things. Mort got angry and I had to play mediator, naturally. One of the two of them started sayin' things about the housekeepin'; somethin' about the pillows and such, catty girlish nonsense. Mort got real mad and grabbed that poker. By that time, the girls got right out of there. I shoved Mort into the bedroom, and I haven't seen him since."

Standing up, Rainey moved next to Shooter. He slung an arm around the taller man's shoulders and asked, "How are your carpentry skills?

A/N: Yes. Well. That is that. I could see Shooter doing the shovel thing. Hate it? Love it? Wonder what I'm eating for dinner? Hit the little blue button.


	6. Patronize me captain

Chapter six – Patronize me, captain

Shooter kicked open the door to the bedroom, Rainey standing behind him, carrying a plate and a glass. Mort had devastated the room; there was barely anything that hadn't been destroyed. Said writer was still unconscious and jerked awake, when the two men entered the room. His face was the essence of confusion and he accepted the plate Rainey handed him, setting it down on the night table, which threatened to topple. Shooter snatched the dish up, just as the wooden stand fell over, sending the remnants of the lamp crashing to the floor. Mort stared blankly at the ruined desk for a few moments, before a look of resigned realization crawled upon his face.

"Liana and …Smithy?" He said, pushing a few annoying strands of hair away from his mouth. Rainey leaned against the wall, looking at the fire poker which was embedded next to his head.

"You're a pain in the ass." Rainey commented, watching his double pick at the food Shooter handed him. Shooter was stoic, investigating the washroom carefully, his boots crunching on the glass littered linoleum.

"I'm really sorry…" Mort trailed, taking a tentative bite of the peanut butter sandwich. Rainey nodded, and glanced around the room, making a mental list of the repairs they needed to make. Mort had suggested hiring a maid once, after one of his particularly nasty destruction binges. Rainey had denied the suggestion immediately; one name was his reason.

"Shooter did kill Mrs. Garvey, right?" Mort asked, looking up from the plate he had on his lap. He felt like a small child, but figured a bit of patronization was expected, in his situation.

"Oh yes. Almost used the vacuum cleaner, but the shovel is much more practical." answered Rainey, pulling the fire prong out of the wall and using it as a cane. His tone was casual, the way one would discuss the weather, or the local sports team. Mort nodded and finished the sandwich, awkwardly balancing the half emptied dish on the mattress. It was the only thing in the room that was still intact, a small favor. Mort looked around the room and stood up, cursing as the milk spilled onto the mattress.

"It just gets worse doesn't it?" Mort mumbled, stepping over the toppled side table.

"When it comes to you, yes. Now, let's clean up, and then kill that bottle of Jack Daniel's."

"It's not even half empty yet." Mort replied, tossing the empty plastic bag out of the small garbage can. He would use it as a bucket for broken glass and there was a lot of it.

"It'll be negative half empty after I get my hands on it..." Rainey grumbled, grabbing the broom out from behind the armoire. Shooter was still in the washroom, making a pile from the glass, his boot a makeshift broom.

"This is going to take a while."

A/N: Negative half empty. Doesn't really make much sense. But that's why I like it. It's just like insult thing, "That's horrible." "Your face is horrible." Makes no sense, but it's fun anyways.


	7. Just call me MrClean

Chapter seven – Just call me Mr. Clean

It took them a week, to finally right the cabin. Shooter had been working on the banister and had replaced the windows, which had required Mort to go into town. The hardware store worker had almost snorted his coffee out of his nose, when he saw the rumored murderer step into the store. It was the fastest trip to the hardware store Mort had ever endured. The windows, mirrors and the shower door were repaired. The coffee table was used as fire wood; a new one was bought at a flea market. Liana and Smithy; the twin females who had incurred Mort's wrath, hadn't shown up, a small relief for the trio. Rainey was mildly disappointed when Theresa didn't make an appearance. She was the only female he could stand; Amy hadn't left the best impression. Their days went back to the usual routine, Mort being forced into working on the novel, Shooter dividing his time between gardening and refurbishing the house and Rainey smoking and occasionally drinking. After one night of a particularly raucous alcohol binge, Shooter left his message. Rainey woke, half buried in the garden, the empty Jack Daniel's bottle sitting next to the shovel, which was stuck into the earth. He would have kept sleeping, if it hadn't of been for the sandaled foot nudging the side of his head.

"Rainey…." Theresa trailed, giving him a look of questioning. His head was pounding and the sunny glint off of the bottle wasn't helping the massive headache threatening to settle behind his eyes.

Rainey cleared his throat, and croaked, "A little help?" Theresa offered her hand, which Rainey grasped, her weight assisting him in his clamber out of his shallow hole. His robe was covered in dirt and when he reached for his cigarettes, he received a handful of soil.

"I've been drinking a bit." He said, in way of an explanation.

Theresa nodded, "I assumed as much. When I asked Shooter where you were, he said something about you ruining his soil with your blood alcohol content or something." Rainey's eyes went wide, at the mention of blood. His hands went over his body, checking for any open wounds. Finding none, he relaxed.

"I don't mean to be rude, but do you mind if we continue this conversation in say…half an hour? I really need to have a shower."

She gestured towards the back door, "By all means. Shower away." The pair entered the cabin, Theresa standing behind Rainey. Shooter had stopped the sand paper assault on the banister, when they entered the cabin and Mort's messy head peered over the railing in front of his desk.

"I'll stop drinking." Rainey said, slightly confused when the two men he lived with kept on staring. He turned, remembering Theresa.

"She's just going to….wait…for a bit, so I can get cleaned up," Rainey glared pointedly at Shooter, who ignored the poignant glance, "And then we're going to….." He trailed off, glancing at the petite red head behind him.

"And then we're going to go over to my place." She finished, slightly baffled. Rainey turned and nodded, facing the two men giving him the eye.

"Well, I'll be back." He began to descend the stairs and stopped, halfway up. Mort and Shooter remained in place, still staring at the woman he had left standing just inside the door. Shaking his head, the dirt encrusted writer entered the bedroom, wondering if he had sentenced Theresa to an early death. He shucked the muck encrusted robe, deciding to retrieve the red head waiting for him downstairs.

A/N: I could also picture the shovel/dirt thing. Woot. I feel like dannnnncing.


	8. The fine art of the Evil Eye

Chapter eight – The fine art of the evil eye

Theresa watched Rainey's retreating back with a growing sense of discomfort. Mort and Shooter had remained motionless, after her entrance and were giving her looks of pure contempt. The flaming red head broke their gaze quickly, directing her increasingly nervous view around the relatively repaired cabin. Mort moved to the stop of the stairs, polishing his glasses and staring still. Theresa wondered how a writer could look so intimidating and yet so ridiculously nerdy in one simple action. Shooter set the sandpaper down on the stairs and turned to her, clearing his throat.

"You're friends cost us a fair amount of money." Shooter started, leaning back against the rail post. Theresa looked up from the new pillows, looking at Shooter blankly.

"I wasn't responsible for their actions." She mumbled, tearing her eyes away from the treacherous eyes that locked with her own brown.

"I murdered my pillows, lady." Mort said nastily, the statement slightly redundant, seeing as she didn't seem to understand the importance of the pillows. Theresa dragged her eyes to Mort, who was seething over the pillows. She had no idea if the 'pillows' were writer's code for something, or if he actually meant that he murdered his cushions. When Rainey's dirt coated head poked out of the door, Theresa jumped. The tension that had accumulated in the spacious room was pressing down on the red head's precarious mental balance and the twin's appearance diffused the mounting nervousness with one shake of his dirt-matted hair.

"Want to come up?" He asked, stepping onto the landing. Theresa nodded vehemently before glancing warily at Mort, who was still standing on the stair case, imposing as ever. Rainey eyed his double, before tapping him on the shoulder and nudging him to move.

"Writing." Rainey reminded, looking at the closed lid of the lap top. Mort replaced his glasses and sent one more glare at Theresa, before moving back to his desk. Shooter picked up the sandpaper, starting his methodical rubbings again. Theresa quickly ascended the stairs, trying to ignore the saw dust that floated down onto her sandal clad feet. Rainey opened the repaired door to the bedroom, motioned to the unmade bed.

"Make yourself comfortable…" Rainey trailed, shrugging sheepishly at the rumpled sheets. Theresa perched herself on the edge of the mattress, nodding thankfully at her savior.

"Thank you."

Rainey looked at her questioningly, "Uh….for what?"

Theresa sighed and answered, "I thought they were going to eat me… Literally… Shooter had that sandpaper…and then Mort….with the glasses…and the pillows…."

Rainey nodded slowly, trying to comprehend the half garbled ranting slipping from Theresa's mouth.

"I'm not exactly following you. I'm going to go and get in the shower, and then you can tell me what happened, alright?" pacified Rainey, patting Theresa's arm. She jumped, eyes clearing, her head coming to sit upright on her shoulders.

"Yeah…er…sorry about that. Go get clean." With that, Rainey disappeared into the washroom leaving the door slightly ajar.

A/N: Short chapter. Blah. Like? Want to murder me for ruining your favorite character? Blue button-a-tize me captain!


	9. Inopportune Discoveries

Chapter nine – Inopportune discovery

Theresa waited, her blue eyes never leaving the now patched door. She couldn't hear anything outside of the room, the buzz from the shower drowning out her chances of hearing their approach. She didn't fully understand why the two men behind the door were so nasty, and her mental stability didn't need to find out. She tensed, hearing a faint slam; she guessed it was Shooter leaving the cabin. Theresa relaxed slightly; one less psychotic delusion to worry about the better. The red head cocked a brow when Rainey's wet body stepped out of the washroom, it was then Theresa discovered that keeping eyes above waists was much harder than she originally perceived.

"Did they bother you?" The question took much longer to compute than it would have under normal circumstances.

"I'm sorry?" The petite woman asked, dragging her eyes away from the dark line of hair trailing down to beneath the towel.

"I said," Rainey attempted to ignore the looks his chest was receiving, "Did they bother you?"

"Oh…no, I think Shooter left." She replied, closing her eyes and shaking her head slightly. She was going to be in some serious trouble if he didn't put on clothing soon. Rainey took that as a sign and quickly pulled a shirt over his head.

"I'm going to wait outside." Theresa announced, her decision made hastily. Refusing to make eye contact, she stepped out of the bedroom. Letting out a breath, Theresa suppressed a yelp. Mort was sitting on the floor, eyeing her coldly.

"Uh….Mort, what are you doing?" She asked, stepping back against the wall. The writer continued to glare, before biting off, "I dropped my last cigarette."

"I thought you didn't smoke." Theresa's eyes widened and receded at the glance she received.

"If I didn't smoke, would I be on the floor?" Mort mumbled something about stupid females, before Rainey stepped out of the room. Holey jeans, old t-shirt. Nothing spectacular, Theresa concluded.

"My house." She said, sending one last glance to Mort. The writer was groping under his desk, still grumbling. Rainey nodded and descended behind Theresa, but not before giving Mort a cigarette.

"All you had to do was ask."

A/N: No reviews. I don't care. Put yourself in Theresa's shoes: Johnny Depp in a towel. Such a typical fan girlish dream, but I had to use it.


End file.
